


Thanks for the Memories

by Doctor_Java



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Post Hogwarts AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:42:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4055341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doctor_Java/pseuds/Doctor_Java
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's life gets complicated when a woman from the not so distant past comes back into her life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter does not belong to me, that's all J.K. What you see here is simply derivative, non-commercial fanfiction.
> 
> Post-Hogwarts. There's no canon compliance here.

It is nearly midnight when Hermione marches into the waiting room on the fourth floor of St. Mungo's Hospital. She has been up since dawn, flitting between patients and her research and distressed family members for nearly sixteen hours straight, with only enough break in between to eat a banana and a half cup of yogurt. Despite the load, her Healer's robes remain unwrinkled and her movements infused with their usual brisk efficiency. But for the faint dabs of color beneath her eyes, one would never suspect she's only slept four hours out of the last thirty-six.

Hermione glances about the room and finds it deserted but for a worn-looking woman slumped in one of the hospital's notoriously uncomfortable chairs. Her gaze is distant, that far off stare that means nothing good is going on behind her eyes, and Hermione knows instinctively that this is her target. She clears her throat and makes quick work of the distance between them, her serviceable shoes slapping against the tiled floor with the assured beat of authority.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Wilkins?” she says, brushing her fingers across the woman's shoulder.

The hazy gaze sharpens with a jolt of surprise and Mrs. Wilkins, suddenly animated, springs to her feet. “Yes, that's me.” She takes a quick step toward Hermione, hands knotted together in worry, her eyes probing Hermione's expression for any hint as to her husband's condition. “Please, how – how is he?”

Hermione summons her most calming smile and gestures for Mrs. Wilkins to sit. “Your husband is doing very well, Mrs. Wilkins,” she says, using the quietly confident tone she's found best suited to soothing frazzled nerves, and she's pleased to see Mrs. Wilkins sag with relief. “He's a bit woozy, of course, but that's completely normal considering. The spell didn't do any permanent damage, and the best thing now is for you to take him home and put him straight to bed.” Hermione hands Mrs. Wilkins a scroll with instructions for further care, which she takes hesitantly, as if the parchment might bite. “I've written up some instructions for you. Don't worry if he sleeps straight through until tomorrow evening, that's just his brain recovering from the shock. Now, if he's out for more than two days, or if you notice severe memory problems after he wakes up, then we'll want you to bring him back in. But,” she continues hurriedly, when Mrs. Wilkins goes pale, “all signs point to your husband making a full recovery. Minus a particular memory, of course.”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you. I was so worried.” Mrs. Wilkins puts a hand to her forehead and sways so bonelessly that Hermione is afraid she is going to pass out. But she only lifts her face to the ceiling and sighs, euphoria giving way to exasperation on that shuddering breath. “I told him I didn't want to cast that spell, you know. I haven't even thought of it since Hogwarts and I've never been comfortable with the charms that affect the brain anyway, but there he was begging and so pathetic. How many times can a wife say no?” Mrs. Wilkins tightens her grip on the scroll, so hard Hermione's afraid it might tear. She gently asks Mrs. Wilkins to take care, but the woman cannot be distracted from her relief. “But never again, I swear it.” She hoists the scroll like she might swing it. “Never. Next time he walks in on his parents -” The steam behind Mrs. Wilkins's rambling relief falters when she realizes what she's almost said, and her cheeks – previously quite pale – flush with blood. “Well,” she stutters, eyes going from Hermione to the wall to the floor, “he'll just have to learn to knock first is all.”

Hermione, who was briefed on the unfortunate encounter between William Wilkins and his parents, nods quickly, eager as his wife to avoid the subject. “A wise decision. You should never cast any spell you aren't completely comfortable with,” she says, feeling it her duty to tack on the advice, given most people end up in her ward for precisely that reason.

“Now, this is Timothy.” Hermione gestures toward the waiting room entryway, where a young man in pale green robes is standing, sporting an amused grin that deepens Mrs. Wilkins's blush. “He'll take you back to your husband's room. Since William isn't legally competent at the moment, there will be some papers for you to sign on his behalf. Once that's done you'll be free to go, and Timothy will escort you out. If you need anything else, or have any questions, don't hesitate to Floo. My name's Healer Granger, but if I'm not here someone else will gladly help you.” Hermione offers a final encouraging smile before shaking Mrs. Wilkins's hand and steering her toward Timothy. “You can rest easy. Have a good night.”

Last patient of the night – fingers crossed – successfully seen to, Hermione makes a cautious trek back to her office, careful to keep an eye out for anyone who might ask her to “take a quick look” at a patient. The deceptively labeled “glances at a chart” have a habit of morphing into hours of extra work, and while Hermione normally doesn't mind assisting a fellow Healer with a case, tonight all she wants to do is go home and bury herself in her own bed for six solid hours before starting all over again in the morning.

She manages to reach her office without having to duck into any closets, and sinks gratefully into her rolling chair, feeling safe enough to chance a happy sigh. She is just reaching for her quill when Romilda Vane, a fellow Gryffindor, and now a Healer on the third floor, sticks her head into her office. Hermione freezes, hand hovering above her desk, dread sinking her stomach.

“Please tell me you're not here in a professional capacity.”

The smile already stretching Romilda's lips widens, the pleased expression more honest than anything Hermione saw from the other woman during their school days. Their shared history caused a bit of a rough start between them when Romilda started at St. Mungo's six years ago, but the passing of time smoothed the old grudges enough to clear a path for friendship. These days Hermione considers Romilda her closest colleague, and even something of a confidante. Though she would value the relationship more if Romilda didn't have a reputation for seeking out the company – and in some cases the companionship – of the hospital's brightest minds.

“I wouldn't dream of it. I'm here to check on your patient. How is he, by the way? The one who saw his parents,” she makes an obscene gesture, “you know.”

“Perfectly fine. Probably in better health than I am, actually,” Hermione says, combing through the stack of papers on her desk, looking for William's initial injury report so she can mark the case resolved and file the paperwork. “Dazed from the spell's effects is all. Just like ninety-eight percent of the other Memory Charm cases that darken my door.”

“You sound upset.” Romilda's tone is laced with indulgent amusement, as it usually is when Hermione looks poised to launch into a rant. “You know, it's a good thing when they're not permanently damaged.”

Hermione huffs. “I know that. It just seems like every person who casts a Memory Charm these days panics and thinks they've done permanent damage. It's a Memory Charm for Merlin's sake, some confusion should be expected. Especially when it's cast with all the delicacy of a tiptoeing rhinoceros.”

Romilda laughs outright and steps into the office, making herself comfortable on the arm of a chair directly across from Hermione. “Maybe a change in the admittance policy is in order,” she says, but Hermione can tell the words are more teasing than an actual suggestion. “Something to bring up at the next staff meeting, maybe.”

“Please.” Hermione unleashes another unladylike noise, then happily discovers William's report. She waves it triumphantly. “If we don't bring them in for a full work up, we don't get their Galleons. I'd be better off suggesting we provide charm casting services. That way, at least, the spell's properly done and we still get paid.”

“Sounds like a brainwave.” Romilda smiles at Hermione for a protracted moment, amusement softening to affection. She crosses her legs, then makes a show of checking her watch. “It's almost midnight, you must be done for the night.”

“Yes, thank Merlin.” Hermione scratches out a final signature on William's paperwork before sending it off to the filing department with a wave of her wand. “I'm in at seven tomorrow, so I plan to spend every moment between now and then tucked into bed. Asleep if at all possible.”

Romilda makes a face. “Your work ethic is disgusting, you know that, don't you?”

“It's been mentioned.”

Hermione's dry rejoinder is followed by a strangely expectant silence. The quiet, thick with an unnameable something, catches her by surprise. She's never associated silence of any kind with Romilda, so she pretends not to notice, making a show of storing her wand while keeping an eye on Romilda. She seems poised for something, tension in her shoulders showing her already half committed, but Hermione can't think to what. She's imagining any number of unethical requests when Romilda says, “I'm off to meet some friends at The Pitch. Care to come along? You can keep me company since they've all been out for hours, and I'll likely be the only one sober. I'm sure you've earned enough points with Dane to come in a few hours late tomorrow.”

To say Hermione is shocked would be putting it mildly. She can't remember the last time a co-worker invited her out for a drink, not being the sort of person a fun-minded individual wants to spend a lot of time with after hours. She's never cared one way or the other, not being the type of person who enjoys going to raucous pubs and holding conversations at a scream, but the offer is unexpectedly tempting.

The last three months, her workdays have consisted of little more than twelve hour shifts followed by depressingly lonely nights in a too-quiet flat. And her weekends, once a respite from the routine cases and the pressures of research, have not been any better. If she's not visiting her parents or at the Burrow, she's getting ahead on paperwork, reading through long-term case files for the umpteenth time, or watching documentaries on the telly, just so she can make a list of factual errors and post a letter of corrections to the director.

It's a deeply depressing existence, and it's been far too long since she's had anything resembling fun. Longer still since that fun wasn't dampened by uncertainty or guilt or unspoken complications. And Romilda's offer certainly promises fun, but Hermione is no fool. She recognizes Romilda's look, has seen it directed at more than half a dozen targets during her years here. Never in all that time did she think it would – or could – be aimed at her, and for a moment, Hermione thinks fatigue has made her delusional.

But a closer look confirms her suspicions. Hermione may never be the most social person, and she has no interest in the more nuanced intricacies of human communication – what's the use of saying a word if one doesn't say exactly what one means? - but she'd have to possess no social skills whatsoever not to realize Romilda's offer is more than drinks with co-workers.

“Romilda,” she starts, flattered and curious but ultimately practical, “I think -”

Her answer is interrupted by the arrival of a squat woman with silver, fly-away hair. She doesn't knock, just strides into Hermione's office like it's her own, dress robes billowing around her ankles. She doesn't slow down until she's standing in front of Hermione's desk, arms crossed, feet spread like she's braced for an attack.

“Granger,” she says, in typically clipped tones. “Glad to see you're still here.”

“Healer Dane.” Surprise at seeing her supervisor makes Hermione quick to her feet. “What are you doing here? I thought you'd gone home for -”

“We have a situation.” For the first time, Healer Dane looks around the office, her words stopping abruptly when she notices Romilda still balancing on the arm of a chair. A scowl twists her face, and she waits, staring until Romilda catches the hint with an accompanying blush.

“Right. I suppose I should go.” She rises with slow reluctance, hesitating even in the face of a senior Healer's annoyance. “Something tells me I won't be seeing you at The Pitch tonight.” Her smile is regretful. “I hope we can reschedule. Goodnight ladies.”

Hermione nods, noncommittal, and watches Romilda walk away, not sure what to make of the woman's sudden interest in her. Not even sure it's genuine, or that it will last. It wouldn't be the first time someone rethought their interest in another person after a night's loneliness had been chased away by the morning, and she can't help but think that will be the case with Romilda.

Realizing now is neither the time or the place to contemplate such things, Hermione snaps her attention toward Dane, who is staring out the doorway, small frown tugging at her mouth.

“You're next on the list, I see,” she says, once the echo of Romilda's departing footsteps has faded. She speaks without inflection, and Hermione waits, sure a warning against inter-hospital relationships is coming.

“Took her long enough to get round to you, didn't it?” Dane continues, shocking her completely. To be honest, she would never have guessed Dane paid attention to hospital gossip, certain the woman would think it beneath her. “You're worth at least two of that fellow she was just with. What's his name? He specializes in bug bites, I think. Trapper wasn't it?”

“I honestly have no idea.”

“Bah, his name isn't worth knowing in any case.” Dane waves a hand, the issue dismissed and forgotten just that easily, then makes herself comfortable in the chair Romilda vacated. “All right, back to business. I just received word of a memory modification incident and I'd like you to see to it personally.”

“Of course.” Hermione reaches for her wand, resigned to another hour spent away from her bed. At this rate, the only way she'll get a quality night's sleep is if she retires from her job to do it. “Is the patient here or on the way?”

“Actually, you'll be making a house call. It's a bit of a sensitive case, and the parties involved desire privacy and discretion.”

Dane tries to soften the words with a smile, well aware of how Hermione feels about giving patient's special treatment – usually because of the size of their Gringott's Bank account. Hermione turns to the cabinet against the back wall, forcing herself to move against the urge to say something ill advised. Her back to Dane, she gives her annoyed frown free reign, and starts gathering her travel supplies: her most commonly used spell ingredients, a shrinkable cauldron, potion bottles and smaller vials, and a travel-sized book of potion recipes.

She does her best to keep the irritation from her voice. “Am I expected tomorrow or -”

“Oh, tonight, most definitely. The family is quite concerned for their daughter, and feel early assessment is best.”

“Of course.” Hermione shoves her spell book into her travel bag with more force than is warranted, reaches for a vial and looks at Dane over her shoulder. “I'll leave immediately, then. What's the name and location of the family?”

Dane looks around Hermione's office, seemingly to ensure it really is empty, then leans close. “It's the Parkinsons,” she says, her excitement a living thing, no doubt made so by the promise of a sizable donation, “and they're at the family's primary estate. You've been authorized to arrive by Floo.”

The vial slips from between Hermione's fingers and breaks against the floor as every muscle in her body goes lax with shock. She almost sinks to her knees, and just manages to catch her weight against a shelf.

Suddenly, a bad situation just got one hundred times worse.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione has never liked Floo travel. Like flying on a broomstick, navigating the network is an alarmingly physical mode of transportation that leaves her feeling out of control and her vulnerabilities exposed. The snapping winds that tear at one's clothes, the ash that invariably coats one's mouth and nostrils, and the violent expulsion from the fireplace at one's destination combine to make Floo travel one of the most stressful and undignified things she's ever experienced. Not to mention the roiling nausea that usually follows. For a Healer wanting to project competence and professionalism, it has the potential to create a horrifyingly demeaning first impression. But for a woman coming face to face with a former lover, a woman meeting said former lover's parents for the first time, it's the opening scene of a nightmare.

One that hopefully won't feature projectile vomit.

A hank of hair has managed to invade her mouth and she's trying to spit it out when the stop comes, jolting her forward and sending her staggering from the fireplace into a cavernous room. Her arms are extended and flailing, ready to brace herself against a fall or furniture, whichever she encounters first. For a moment she's completely disoriented, blinded as star bursts of light created by magical flames flare at the center of her vision, turning the world into a white haze. Later, she'll realize she's in a library, the collection stacking the walls from floor to ceiling the largest she has ever seen in a private residence, and her fingers will twitch with the urge to touch. But when her eyes finally adjust to the dense shadows penetrated only by the weakest flickers of candlelight, after she's sure she won't sprawl face first across the floor, the only thing she's aware of is the woman stretched across the chaise lounge not an arm's length away. Her lean body long and relaxed, her face turned expectantly in Hermione's direction.

Hermione straightens slowly, arms dropping to her sides only after she consciously wills them to do so. Her mouth is uncomfortably dry and she can't bring herself to blink. The only sound she can hear is the rush of blood in her ears.

It's the first time they've been face to face in months. Since Hermione left Pansy in her own bed, sheets twisted and damp and pulled haphazardly to her waist in negligent modesty. Her gaze that night had been an unrelenting heat, and Hermione had sworn she felt the singe of it between her shoulder blades.

Tonight is different.

During all the times Hermione's imagined this moment, had waking nightmares about it, there's always been a calculated dismissal in Pansy's stare. Variations of indifference or rage meant to convey how much Pansy did not miss her and would never want her back. Once, on a night that found Hermione slumped against her couch, an empty bottle of wine tipped over beside her, she'd dared to picture tears, a mutual admittance of wrongs followed by reconciliation. But her better sense returned in the morning, arm in arm with sobriety, and she had banished the vision from her mind, along with anything stronger than butterbeer from her pantry.

But now that it's happened, now that she's looking into eyes she's always found so expressive – far more revealing than the face so often sculpted by sly amusement – there's nothing there. No recognition, no disdain, no anger, and certainly no sign of any softer emotions. Only a hint of perplexed curiosity.

It's like a blow to the gut, and Hermione deflates as the nervous energy that's been crackling through her body drains down her limbs and out the bottoms of her feet. The raw defiance she was expecting – counting on – to carry her through this meeting does not come, held in stasis by the lack of everything from Pansy. Instead she's flooded by disappointment, like she'd actually expected Pansy to recognize her somehow and this is further proof that whatever connection Hermione believed existed between them was an illusion.

It's irrational and ridiculous and Hermione tells herself this is a reprieve.

“Hello,” she says, when she's gathered herself enough to realize she's been staring at Pansy long enough to mark the moment as odd. She forces her gaze to the elderly couple in the room, able to recognize them as Pansy's parents even if she hadn't been well acquainted with the moving photographs in Pansy's home. The ones in which, by turns, Homer and Evelyn Parkinson glared at her and sent their daughter outraged stares every time Hermione embraced Pansy in their presence. Though she hadn't looked close enough to note it then, preferring not to witness their disapproval up close, Pansy shares her father's build and eyes, and owns a perfect replica of her mother's nose. “I'm Healer -”

“Granger.” A detested voice interrupts, stealing Hermione's breath as it sends a bolt of adrenaline through her potent enough to tunnel her vision. She turns slowly, catching sight of Draco Malfoy as he rises from a chair beside the fireplace, materializing from a mist in the air as far as she is concerned. The shock of his presence – especially when she should have expected it – is a bitter blow. A physical reminder of the place she was never able to occupy in Pansy's life because it was already taken.

“I should have known they'd send you.” Malfoy's mouth puckers unattractively with distaste as he extends a hand. It takes all of Hermione's self-control not to slap it away. “After all, we did ask for the best. She's Muggle-born,” he says, addressing the Parkinsons, as if they don't know who she is simply because of her association with Harry. “But don't worry, she's quite capable.”

Hermione takes his ironically offered hand in a firm grip and returns his taunting gaze, picking up where they left off at Hogwarts. Only this time she doesn't know if she's staring at the sneer of a childhood rival, a jealous lover, or both. She never asked Pansy if Malfoy knew about them, preferring to speak of Pansy's fiancé as little as possible, and truthfully she'd rather not know the source of his current contempt. The thought of Pansy telling him about her and the thought of her not telling him anything at all are both equally painful to contemplate.

“So.” Pansy strolls into their conversation, bringing with her the scent of tuberose perfume. It was the scent Pansy always wore on the nights they spent at Muggle pubs, when they danced and drank for hours in places no one would recognize them and Pansy didn't have to worry about gossips reporting back to her parents. And, if Hermione's honest, she didn't have to worry about those same gossips spreading word far enough that it got back to Harry and Ron. “Do we know it each other? My dear fiancé,” she pauses for a grin, “certainly seems to know you.”

Hermione watches Malfoy, but his disdainful expression gives nothing away. After a slight pause, she says, “We went to school together. We were in the same year.”

“Lovely. Are we friends, then?”

“Not really,” she says, over Malfoy's choked laughter. She steps away from the two, desperate for space, for air that doesn't reek of something she's lost, and starts digging through her travel pack with clumsy hands. If she can just keep her distance, stay professional, everything will be okay. She adds in an airy voice, “But we knew each other well enough, and I'll take excellent care of you.”

“Not that I doubt your intentions, Miss Granger,” Mrs. Parkinson speaks for the first time, firm with authority and demanding Hermione's full attention, “or Draco's confidence in your abilities, but I must say that sending you to treat our daughter seems a questionable decision on your supervisor's part.” The smile she levels at Hermione is tight, her gaze unnervingly direct. “We are aware, of course, of your history with Pansy. Our daughter's health is paramount, and regardless of whether you are the best in your field, I question whether you are capable of providing...unbiased care.”

For a heartbeat Hermione thinks Mrs. Parkinson knows about them, then she realizes the other woman is only referring to their years at Hogwarts, when they'd stood on opposite sides during the battle with Voldemort. Relief follows, but it can't soothe the sting from the rebuke. It feels too much like the kind of disapproval she would have endured if the Parkinsons ever had learned she was their daughter's lover. “I'm a professional,” she says, the bite in her tone too sharp for the insult. “I don't tailor my care based on whether I agree with a patient's politics.”

There's an uncomfortable silence and Hermione waits for the Parkinsons to dismiss her outright. She almost hopes they do. But after Mrs. Parkinson and her husband exchange a glance, she gives a stiff nod.

“We'll take that as a promise.”

Just like that the confrontation is over, and Hermione can get on with the business of taking care of Pansy and fleeing the premises as quickly as possible. “Right,” she says, brisk. “It's late, so why don't we get started.” She pulls out her quill and a bit of parchment and settles on a chair without asking permission to sit. She spares a look for Pansy, who has returned to the chaise lounge and is now regarding her with open interest. When she notices Hermione's stare, one side of her mouth lifts in a conspiratorial smile, like she knows they share a secret. Hermione turns quickly away and clears her throat. “Can someone tell me the circumstances surrounding Miss Parkinson's memory loss?”

“Ask him.” Mr. Parkinson stabs a thin finger in Malfoy's direction. His voice is a booming echo, at odds with his delicate, whip-like frame. Like the roar of a lion from a gazelle. “He's the one that hit her with the Forgetfulness Charm.”

Hermione makes a note that Pansy was hit with a Memory Charm, then turns to Malfoy, one eyebrow raised. “Malfoy?”

“She asked me to do it.” Malfoy looks at the Parkinsons, the picture of a sheepishly apologetic future son-in-law who knows he did wrong, but also knows he'll be forgiven without too much fuss. It's disgusting, and Hermione wonders how thoroughly the Parkinsons have been duped. If they truly believe he is good for their daughter, or if they're simply like Pansy: bound as if by blood to an archaic sense of duty. One that allows them to dictate their only child's future in the name of artificial obligation.

Based on the pronounced curl of Mrs. Parkinson's lip, and Mr. Parkinson's flat stare, Hermione guesses the latter. The waste of it all, the readiness with which this family binds itself to a man who inspires poorly concealed scorn, is beyond comprehension.

“And why's that?” she says to Malfoy, speaking to her parchment, unable to look at anyone. Afraid they will see her contempt, her impotent rage. Both made all the more meaningless, more out of place, because she is the one who walked away, the one who conceded to Malfoy. “Why did she want you to modify her memory?”

Malfoy shrugs, his gaze somehow expectant. “Why does anyone? She wanted to forget, Granger.”

“I need you to be more specific.” Hermione makes a few scratches with her quill, gibberish written just to make her look busy. She can feel the grip on her temper slipping, the urge to speak her mind writhing like a snake in her hand. “Can I assume you were attempting to modify a single memory? A recent one and were simply...unable to control your magic?”

Malfoy laughs, but the sound has a grated edge that Hermione knows is meant to cut. “You can assume anything you want, but you'd be wrong in this case. Shock, that. It was actually a string of memories, dating back almost two years ago. She made a mistake, you see. It disgusted her, really, what she'd done, and she wanted all memory of it gone. I was just giving her what she wanted.” Malfoy smirks and looks at Pansy who simply shakes her head. “A bit more complicated than a one off event, I'd say.”

His meaning is unmistakable. Delivered with glee and a taunting smile, it's made more vicious because the truth of it is just between them. He knows everything – or enough – and had tried to wipe her memory from Pansy's mind at her own request. After everything, Pansy had wanted to forget her. Her gaze cuts toward Pansy before she can stop it, and she hates that Malfoy sees it.

“Certainly too complicated for you,” she grinds out, professionalism bursting completely, unable to quell the urge to lash out. To somehow protect herself. She has to bite her lip to keep from saying more, strangle her notes not to reach for her wand. Slowly, she takes a deep breath, ignoring Malfoy's hum of satisfaction, the Parkinson's disapproving glares.

“Did you cast the spell with your own wand?” she manages after only a few awkward moments.

“Yes.”

“And did you notice anything odd? Sparking? Strong vibrations or other unusual movements?” Her questions come straight from the text books she's memorized, sounding nearly mechanical. So much of her concentration is focused on keeping control, she barely registers the answers.

“No.”

Hermione holds out a hand. “May I see your wand?”

Apparently content with the blood he's already drawn, Malfoy is suddenly agreeable. He gives her his wand without protest, waits silently while Hermione examines it, runs her fingers along the smooth wood, checking for irregularities in shape or unexplained warmth. When she's satisfied it at least looks normal, she hands it back to Malfoy.

“Have you used it since the incident?”

“Several times.”

“Any problems?”

His smile is smarmy little boy pleased. “None.”

She makes a few more notes, then sets her materials aside and turns to Pansy. It's difficult, but she manages to meet the other woman's eyes, manages not to congratulate her on staging what must be the most thorough rejection known to humankind. Instead she produces a smile and gestures for her to approach, bracing herself in the time it takes for Pansy to reach her.

“And how are you feeling right now, Miss Parkinson?” she says, when Pansy stops in front of her. She should have started with the physical examination, asking Pansy these questions, but her focus has been shattered from the start. It's worse now. “Any headache or nausea?” She checks for fever, placing a reluctant hand on Pansy's forehead, pressing harder than necessary to disguise its trembling.

“Not at all.”

Hermione's hand returns to her side, where she balls it into a fist. “And you don't have any memory of your life before tonight?”

“No.”

“Follow my finger please. Just with your eyes, don't move your head.” Pansy's eyes follow the movements of her finger perfectly until they return to Hermione's. Like her mother's a few moments ago, Pansy's stare is searching. It's obvious to them all now that something is bothering her and Pansy's curiosity is palpable. The desire to flee is overwhelming. “And do you remember who I am? I introduced myself when I arrived and -”

“Healer Granger. We went to school together, and we are definitely not friends.” Pansy's smile is smugly proud, a little teasing. It is the same one she always wore when she managed to make Hermione do something out of character. Usually in public.

Hermione turns abruptly to Pansy's parents. “Right,” she says, before swallowing hard. “The wand appears normal and Miss Parkinson appears to be in good health otherwise. I'm going to treat her with the Retention Draught. It's the strongest potion in our arsenal, and our best chance at recovering her memories.”

“Isn't there some spell you can cast that will do the job immediately?”

Hermione shakes her head at Mr. Parkinson, and once again roots around in her travel bag, removing everything she'll need to make the potion. “Miss Parkinson's brain has just suffered a severe shock. To bring all her memories back at once would put it under more stress than it can safely handle. The draught is a gradual process that usually takes anywhere from a few hours to a few days.”

“But her memories will come back? That's guaranteed?”

“There's no such thing as routine memory modification, so nothing is ever guaranteed. But the full return of Miss Parkinson's memory is the most likely result,” Hermione says, finally able to find some strength to focus solely on her role as Healer. It helps that Malfoy has returned to his chair and has been silent for more than thirty seconds.

“How soon will we know?”

“It varies by patient. As I said, it could take a few hours, it could be several days. A batch of the draught lasts two days, and after two batches we'll have a good idea of what Miss Parkinson's recovery will be like.”

“What happens after the second batch?” For the first time since she entered the room, Malfoy looks genuinely concerned.

“Studies have shown that after the second batch, effectiveness is essentially non-existent. So -”

“So if I don't recover anything by the time the second batch runs out, then what? Too bad, but so long?”

“Then it's a tougher road,” Hermione says, worried even as she says it that part of her will be relieved if Pansy doesn't get her memory back. It's a horrible thought, one that should have her removing herself from the position of Pansy's Healer, but she can't help but think it would be easier that way. Not for Pansy, but certainly for her. The prospect of Pansy remembering how much she wanted to forget her seems worse than the actual forgetting. Hermione shakes her head, physically trying to remove the thought from her mind. “We'll have to switch to other, less proven methods after that. It's more unpredictable, and recovery becomes as much about luck as it is treatment.”

A somber silence coats the room so Hermione forces a reassuring, “But there's no sense worrying about it until we have to. The odds are good.”

“How soon can she start taking the potion?” says Mr. Parkinson.

“You'll take two doses a day, and I recommend you take the first one tomorrow at sunrise.” Hermione addresses Pansy. Thankfully she sounds calmer, finally completely composed. Only the shaking of her legs remains – a hangover from the emotional assault she's endured – and she's sure no one notices. “You'll take the other at sunset, and follow that schedule for two days. I'll make you the first batch before I leave.”

“What happens when that one runs out? Will you send the other one here?”

“Actually, I'd like to pop in and reevaluate you tomorrow night after you've had the first two doses.” The prospect is painful but necessary. “We'll take it from there. Everything is day by day with this degree of memory loss.”

Pansy nods, then plops onto the desk, settling beside Hermione's travel-sized cauldron. “Let's get started, shall we?

Hermione's smile is pained. “Let's.”

~*~*~*~

Hermione doesn't go home after leaving the Parkinson's. Her mind is too active, darting in too many directions, her body oddly energized. She needs an outlet, so, after Flooing back to St. Mungo's and dropping her bag on the floor of her office, she walks.

She has no idea what time it is, or where she should go, so she becomes a wandering cliché, walking wherever her feet take her while her mind broods. The thoughts it entertains are not pleasant.

She'd been waiting. Or hoping, or expecting, or some equally foolish thing. There's no denying it now. Whether it was subconsciously, or passively, or buried in denial – hope had existed. Right until the moment Malfoy flung back the curtain, revealing the reality she'd refused to believe existed.

It was never going to happen. And despite her resolve, her raised chin and the daily, self-deluding mantras about how over everything she was, she'd wanted it, she'd wanted Pansy back.

But Pansy didn't want her. Probably never really had, and for all Hermione knows she'd cried with relief when Hermione finally broke things off. Threw herself a liberation party. Maybe even had a celebratory orgy. All while Hermione played the part of delusional fool to perfection. Rarely going out, bouncing between her flat and her office because those would be the easiest places for Pansy to find her when she finally came around. As if Pansy only needed to realize what she'd lost, that Hermione was something she could actually miss.

It was conceit and fantasy at their commingled finest.

Hermione laughs, the sound appropriately thick with bitterness.

She's still chuckling a moment later, wiping at her face, when she is literally shaken from her depression by a hard shoulder connecting with her own. Stunned, she stumbles sideways, nearly twisting an ankle when she trips off the curb.

“Watch it,” a male voice, slurred but intelligible, spits in her direction. “You could bust a man's head open walking around like that.”

“Sorry,” Hermione says, rubbing at her foot, too preoccupied to point out that he was the lumbering menace, not her.

The man, barely taller than she is, shrugs and starts to walk away, but seems to reconsider. When he turns back it's with an appraiser's eye that zeroes in on her chest and wanders no further.

“It's alright,” he says, and with his smooth-cheeked face now illuminated by a street lamp, Hermione realizes he's at least a decade younger than she is. Probably fresh out of Hogwarts. He takes an unsteady step toward her and grabs her shoulder, pretending he's not using her to hold himself up. “I don't mind knocking shoulders with a pretty lass like you, if you know what I mean.”

He winks. Or tries to, but can't seem to get his eye open again. Hermione, shifting into Healer mode, grabs his arms at the elbows and slowly lowers him to the ground. He lands with a thump that makes her grimace.

“You got any friends here?” she says, brushing a limp strand of hair from his mouth and trying in vain to meet his eyes. “Anyone to take care of you?”

On cue, another young man appears on the sidewalk, looking just as depressingly young. “Oi! Wallace!” He casts a wary look at Hermione before grabbing Wallace's shoulder and giving it a tug. “What are you doing out here? The party's inside.”

“I think Wallace here has had enough.” Hermione smiles to soften the hint of an order. “Probably best to get him home.”

But the nameless one isn't having it, and he rolls his eyes. “Are you his grandmother, then?” he says, and puts his hands beneath Wallace's armpits, lifting him to his feet. “He's fine. You look like you could use a good night's sleep, though. Maybe a few of them, yeah?”

Hermione rears back, speechless. She's never been an acclaimed beauty, but no one's ever accused her of being a haggard crone, either. She opens her mouth to give him a what for, but as her eyes dip reflexively to her clothes, she takes in the ash-covered skirt, the wrinkled blazer and stained blouse. And no doubt her hair looks like it's been lived in after traveling through the Network twice. She lifts a hand to it, fingering a clump of escaped curls, and instinctively takes a step back, self-consciously seeking the shadow. In a surge of dread, she wonders if she looked this horrific at the Parkinson's.

“Hey, don't insult her.” Wallace comes to her defense, drunkenly valiant. “I was just introducing myself. We were going to get to know each other better.”

“Blimey, maybe you are completely pissed.” The man drags Wallace away, holding him up as he stumbles, dismissing Hermione without another glance. “Back inside with you now.”

The urge to run after the man and tell him off is strong, but Hermione decides to let the final insult pass, knowing any protest would be wasted breath. And probably only create more ammunition. Instead she watches the two men – boys, really – disappear into the closest pub, convinced she must be up for some sort of award. Surely not every woman gets so degraded on the same day a former lover goes to such lengths to forget everything about her.

Or maybe, Hermione thinks, smiling ruefully, that's the way it always happens.

Not one to be done in by the words of a pimple-faced child, Hermione welcomes the sudden confidence - the distraction - manufactured by indignation. She pulls out her wand and does a quick spell to freshen her appearance, and even if it isn't a total fix, at least she won't look like some roughed up chimney sweep.

Clothes and hair seen to, she finally takes note of her surroundings, not very surprised to find herself in the heart of downtown's drinking district, with a new pub for every staggering step one can muster. All with their own specials. It's fortuitous, and too coincidental to think it was anything but planned, albiet subconsciously. After a night like this, she's certainly earned a trip to the pub. A drink or three or four would go a long way to deadening her mind. Maybe even help her find a little diversion. As if she doesn't already have a specific source of diversion in mind. A way to prove she's not completely unattractive – Pansy and Wallace's cheeky friend not withstanding.

She enters The Pitch, conveniently located just across the street, still not admitting to herself that she left her office with the sole intent of finding Romilda and asking if the night's offer still stood. It takes scanning the patrons' faces, searching for those dark eyes and being disappointed when she doesn't find them to admit the truth. Not that she's completely certain what she'd have done with Romilda if she found her. Probably something she'd regret in the morning.

Or not, she amends, remembering all the months she's wasted.

Quarry absent, Hermione lingers near the entrance, debating whether to go home or carry on. Deciding she's no more likely to find sleep than she was a half hour ago, she makes a line for the bar and settles in for the night. She lifts a hand to the barkeep, a portly man with thick whiskers and a face that suggests he's heard every story there is to be told, and waits while he moseys over to her, lobbing a harmless jab at each patron he passes.

“What will you have, love?”

Hermione leans against the bar. “Something strong.”

The barkeep nods, not asking for more specific instructions, and Hermione supposes he gets the request a lot. Probably has a go-to drink for every pathetic sod who wanders through his door late at night, looking beaten by life. All the more so for the scent of desperate nonchalance that hangs about them. He certainly returns quick enough, like he's had the drink waiting, and the smile on his face is appropriately sympathetic. He even lingers just long enough to see if Hermione wants to talk about her troubles before shuffling off to the next customer. In this case, a young woman who looks like she's having the night of her life, loudly ordering firewhiskey for the whole pub before a friend clamps a hand over her mouth.

Hermione smiles a little, and tries to remember the last time she was that happy. The memory doesn't come quickly, so she decides it doesn't bear thinking about anyway. She looks at herself in the mirror behind the bar – still a little rough around the edges, but definitely appropriate for public viewing – and raises a glass to her reflection. To letting go, she thinks, not giving a bloody damn how trite it sounds.

~*~*~*~

It was her girlfriend's fault. All of it. Her name was Samantha Reginald, she was eleven years older than Hermione, a solicitor for the Ministry, and everyone called her Reggie. They met at a hospital fundraiser, both waiting for their respective acquaintances to arrive and willing to speak with anyone just to avoid standing alone. Over the course of an hour, and two glasses of champagne each, they discovered they had everything in common, right down to their favorite passages in Hogwarts: A History. It felt like fate and before Reggie went to join her friends, Hermione, tipsy and bold, asked to meet for coffee the next afternoon. Reggie accepted.

The fateful invitation was extended four months later. They were out to dinner, and already time spent together was becoming an obligation, a series of inexplicable silences made more bewildering because they were both eager talkers. So, with yet another conversation devolving into silent nods and awkwardly obvious glances toward the wall clock, Reggie invited Hermione to her book club's monthly meeting. Hermione, always looking for another reason to talk about books, jumped at it.

Until the moment of her acceptance, she and Pansy had lived in completely separate social spheres, and done so quite happily. Hermione hadn't thought of Pansy in years, had even managed to push the fact of her existence from her mind. For Pansy, she later learned, it was much the same. Their reintroduction three nights later caused a shock, but it was a familiar one, like suddenly recalling a childhood nightmare that had long since stopped and, for a time, faded away completely. Now its terror was remembered, but the effects were dulled.

They were never friends, of course. Not that they would admit. Not until after they started shagging. But over time they became acquaintances, increasingly civil, grown immune to the old contempt through forced and repeated exposure. It wasn't acceptance, Hermione often told herself, just indifference. It was an important distinction.

But things changed. Reggie left her for a man. Pansy broke up with Malfoy. Their book club numbers dwindled, stabilized, then dwindled again. Pansy got back together with Malfoy, and Hermione decided it was a good idea to be single for a while. And through it all, the buffer between them thinned, the things keeping them separate wearing away until they could not help but come to know one another. It happened so gradually, Hermione never experienced the slightest alarm. Not until later.

Admitting she was attracted to Pansy physically was the easy part. Easy being relative. Through the course of a year, and the lifetime that played out during their time at Hogwarts, Pansy's appearance went through a transformation. She started as pug-nosed rival, then was ugly inside and out for years until she was simply pug-nosed again. Eventually her face became just her own, something common and benign, but that phase lasted just long enough to mark the distinction between it and striking. Until her every expression captivated Hermione.

But that was simply a matter of biology, an autonomic response easily ignored or directed elsewhere. Far more acceptable than the creeping appreciation for the sharpness of Pansy's mind, her wit and dry humor. Unfortunately, Hermione didn't notice herself seeking out Pansy's company just for the sake of it until too much damage had been done. By the time she knew what was happening, want of the physical and appreciation of the intangible had coalesced into a desire for the whole, manifesting in bursts of pleasure at Pansy's smile, stray thoughts of what she would think about this or that, a longing for her presence.

The problem - the betrayal - identified, Hermione fought actively against it. She sought distraction in other women, and when that failed she spent even more time with Pansy, banking on the contempt that was supposed to come with familiarity. Many nights were spent reminding herself of every vile thing Pansy had done to her and her friends.

But the case was hopeless, and eventually Hermione admitted the only thing stopping her from making a disastrous decision was Pansy's complete disinterest. She clung to it gratefully.

Until Pansy kissed her.

It was after a book club meeting and they were the last two to leave; Hermione because she'd dropped her satchel of books and Pansy because she'd been waiting for just this moment. There was nothing of Pansy in that first kiss, at least nothing Hermione recognized. The woman was confidence personified, and Hermione doubted she'd ever suffered a regret or a second thought in her life. Those were for people who thought they had to earn things to be worthy of them: an education, a promotion, a fortune, someone's love. Pansy lived differently. She knew success was simply a matter of grabbing at opportunity and not letting go. The quickest, strongest hands won, and doubt was a waste of time.

But her first kiss was timid. A hesitant approach followed by a wary retreat and watchful eyes. As if, for the first time in her life, Pansy wasn't sure she wanted what she could so obviously have.

So Hermione said nothing and did nothing. And after a careful silence, Pansy became her usual self, offering thoughts and opinions in her typically self-assured manner.

Hermione thought that was the end of it, and couldn't decide whether to be relieved or devastated. But there was little time to consider, because the next time they were alone Pansy kissed her again. This time there was no doubt in her touch. She gripped Hermione's arms and pulled her close and Apparated them both to her London flat. She did not believe in things like caution or going slow. Hermione returned every touch and only registered the bed pressing against the back of her thighs a moment before Pansy pushed her onto it.

She and Malfoy had an understanding. That was how Pansy put it that first morning after, when Hermione lay sick with guilt and euphoria. Malfoy, she said, had more mistresses than Pansy did pairs of shoes, and that wasn't counting the steady flow of one night stands he neglected to mention. Pansy was pickier, more circumspect. Once, two years before, she'd given in to the urge for a bit of rough and spent a week with a Muggle construction worker, holed up at an inn that smelled of mothballs and had stains on the walls. He was between jobs, and she had no set obligations, so they slept every day until noon, then woke and drank their breakfast and shagged until dark, when they'd break for sandwiches and cigarettes and wine. Re-energized, they'd shag again until they passed out, usually just before day break. After Pansy had her fill – he was quite good and very enthusiastic – she simply left. That was the last time Pansy shagged anyone. She and Malfoy hadn't shared a bed in six years.

“What do you get out of it?” Hermione asked once. They were in bed, naked and slick with sweat but wrapped around each other anyway. Pansy's head was resting against her shoulder, and her dark curls tickled Hermione's chin. “Staying with Malfoy, I mean.”

“Prestige,” Pansy said after a moment, so softly Hermione almost didn't hear her. She rolled her head until her lips brushed Hermione's chest, and when she spoke again it was into Hermione's skin. “My parents' approval, of course. And a biological heir of suitable lineage to inherit the family fortune.”

It was said without inflection, like Pansy had no feelings about it one way or the other. Like Hermione, who had been sleeping with her for more than half a year, spending nearly all her free time with Pansy, would have no feelings about it, either.

But why should she? It wasn't like they had put a name to what was between them. Hermione wasn't sure there was anything to name on Pansy's side. And she'd never asked, for once preferring ignorance to enlightenment.

That was the beginning of the end. The first time Pansy's presence, her touch, brought more pain than pleasure. The first time she knew things wouldn't last.

Three weeks later it was Hermione who left.

What are you doing?

I need to clear my head.

It was nearly two in the morning, and she hadn't planned it, but Pansy's presence had become suffocating, the ease of her sleep too agitating for Hermione to stand. She was still pulling on her shirt as she walked out the door, struggling for breath, her skin clammy. Her heart had been pounding so hard she could hear it in her ears.

She never came back, and Pansy never tried to contact her. It was a clean break, or so she told herself. But she wondered if Pansy thought of her. If she would tell their story to the next person who warmed her bed.

~*~*~*~

Hermione wakes to a hand shaking her shoulder.

“How did it go?”

The disembodied voice floats to her through a fading dream and she opens her eyes, searching for its source. A blurred shape looms above her, its edges softened and smeared in the dark windowless office, and she blinks until the lines sharpen, taking on the form of Healer Dane.

“How did it go?” Hermione repeats slowly. Her tongue feels thick and clumsy and her mouth tastes like a dirty sock. She rubs at her eyes with one fist and wonders why Dane is in her bedroom.

“The Parkinsons,” Dane says, and it all comes back: Pansy, the drinks, sleeping in her office. Hermione turns her face into the cushion to hide a grimace. “How was the consultation?”

Hermione takes a moment to answer, ignoring the urgency in Dane's voice to gather the thoughts and impressions left scattered by last night's drinking binge. She sits up carefully, struggling not to look obviously hung over in front of her supervisor, not sure she manages it. Briefly, she considers implying that she spent the night in her office after a long night of research, but discards the idea almost immediately. If Dane suspects the truth, Hermione doesn't want to make things worse by lying so transparently. She clears her throat and just says, “Looks like a typical case.”

“It's resolved then?”

“Well,” Hermione hedges, wishing she were more awake. She glances at the clock, surprised to see it's after nine o'clock. She doesn't want to think about how many people wandered by her office this morning and saw her passed out like a drunkard. “It was a complete wipe. She won't get everything back overnight, but I don't foresee any difficulties.”

“A complete wipe? They didn't mention that last night.” Dane taps one fingernail against her front teeth, a rare display of uncertainty. “Why didn't you bring Miss Parkinson in for observation?”

Annoyance sparks and the lingering fog in Hermione's brain burns away. She won't be taken to task for not following hospital regulations when seeing Pansy in her home was bending rules in the first place. Not by the woman who issued the order. “I thought we were being discreet,” she says, voice tight.

“Well, of course -”

“I'm making regular house calls. If she doesn't respond to treatment, I'll escalate accordingly.” Hermione moves to stand beside her open door, walking gingerly to keep from jostling her aching head. “Now if you wouldn't mind, I had a late night and would like to freshen up.”

Dane doesn't protest, doesn't even give her a dirty look, sign enough that she's preoccupied. Hermione closes the door behind her, then goes about the task of tidying her office. She turns the couch back into a chair, stores her traveling kit in its proper place, and stacks the papers she left strewn about in last night's daze. She does her best not to think.

When that's done she sits and hopes for distraction. She'd even be grateful for another William Wilkins type case at this point, a wife botching the Forgetfulness Charm after her husband walks in on his parents shagging on the kitchen table. Anything to get her mind off Pansy, her pounding headache, her life.

What a difference twenty-four hours makes.


	3. Chapter 3

“You ever think your flat was a waste of money?”

Hermione, whose mind had been tangled in thoughts of the night before, jerks upright, trades staring blankly at a breakfast plate covered by unappetizing blandness for blinking dazedly at the large, too-wide smile of Romilda. She's waiting for a response but, for the life of her, Hermione has no idea what was just said, so she offers a tired smile and a murmured, “Morning Romilda,” and hopes that's good enough.

It must be, because Romilda says, “Morning,” then settles across from her, covering her lap with a napkin and reaching for silverware. She looks good for a woman who spent the night at a pub, her complexion pink and refreshed, her eyes without the bags that Hermione's carry. She looks like a woman without cares, like someone whose sleep is never disturbed by anything, and Hermione feels a presumptuous envy. Between Harry, Voldemort, her parents, school, work research, and now Pansy, Hermione's sleep has always been more disturbed than not. She supposes she should be used to it by now.

“Do you spend any time at your own flat?” Romilda continues, reaching for the eggs and sparing Hermione a teasing glance. “I know for a fact you've taken breakfast, lunch, and supper here for the last three days at least. It can't be healthy, can it? Spending all that time amongst the scores of ill. I mean -” She breaks off, face becoming stricken as she studies Hermione's face, the no doubt clear signs of fatigue and wear. Rumpled is the kindest adjective Hermione can think of to describe how she probably looks. “I mean, Merlin, you haven't been displaced have you? Oh, Hermione, I feel like a perfect arse. If you need a place to stay -”

“I haven't been displaced,” Hermione says, the confirmation of just how haggard she looks makes her chuckle weakly. “Just working a lot is all.”

“Thank goodness.” Romilda brightens and goes back to piling her plate with food. “Speaking of, word is you've taken a position as a private Healer.”

Hermione's hand tightens reflexively around her fork. “Sorry?”

“You know.” Romilda leans close, lowers her voice. “For the Parkinson family.”

“How did you -”

“I heard a rumor down on the first floor. Now, normally I leave that lot to their spider bites, but since I know for a fact that Dane paid you a secretive nocturnal visit, I suspected there might be some truth to the whispers. Don't worry,” Romilda says when Hermione pinches the bridge of her nose, “I didn't say a word.”

“So much for privacy and discretion. We may as well have called a press conference.”

“A what?”

“Sorry, Muggle reference.” Hermione pushes her plate away, faint appetite disappearing completely. She's only been awake for half an hour and already she's two for two, both people she's spoken to having alluded to Pansy. Typical, really. “Well, that certainly didn't stay a secret for long. Hopefully the Parkinsons don't get wind of it.”

Romilda waves a hand, bits of toast clinging to her fingers. “Like I said, first floor. They could have a picture of the Minister dancing around in his knickers and no one would care.”

“I think I'm relieved.” Hermione tries not to get a mental image. ”So, how was your night?” she says, needing to direct the conversation elsewhere.

Romilda takes a moment to answer, maybe surprised Hermione referenced the previous evening, maybe just to gather her thoughts after the change of subject. She shrugs with affected carelessness. “It was alright,” she says, hesitating again before one side of her mouth curls into a small smile, before she looks at Hermione in a way that's assessing, exploring. “It would have been far more enjoyable had you managed to make an appearance.”

And there it is. Proof that despite last night's casual brush off, Hermione is still in Romilda's sights. That her regard wasn't merely the product of whim brought on by the late hour and a dearth of more appealing options. It's refreshing, and a bright bit of distraction after what happened with Pansy.

Hermione waits a beat, unused to coquetry, then tries, “You think so, do you?”

Romilda's widening eyes are almost comical, and it's gratifying in a completely shallow way to know she inspires that kind of excitement. “Oh, I know so,” she says, recovering quickly. The innuendo is thick. “I think you do, too.”

There's a practiced quality to Romilda's flirtation, like an actress who hasn't learned her lines well enough to make them sound completely natural. Some might be put off by it, and in other circumstances Hermione probably would be, but it's exactly Romilda's poorly disguised intentions, their obvious lack of depth, that makes them reassuring. Her studied looks, the occasionally stilted tone and repressed excitement, are like a flashing sign, declaring her agenda from three Quidditch pitches away. There is no need decipher any hidden messages, no chance for misinterpretation, and suddenly uncomplicated is very appealing.

Hermione knows she's standing at a threshold. Yesterday she'd been content to back away, secure in the determination that stepping across it would be a very bad idea. Shagging just for shagging's sake was all well and good, just not for her. But that was something she believed before she discovered how cheaply her last relationship was valued, how willingly she'd shared her body with someone who ultimately viewed it as just that. The answer, perhaps, isn't to go out and jump into bed with the first person who propositions her, but maybe it is.

“I did actually,” she says, cautious, still not quite committed. “I stopped by The Pitch after I finished up.”

“You did?”

“It was late.” Hermione shrugs, like her attempt to meet up with Romilda was of no import, like she's not trying to keep herself in the game long enough to decide which way she wants to go. “You were gone by then.”

“I only stayed an hour. I didn't think you were coming, so there wasn't a reason to stay.”

Romilda is eager, but Hermione only smiles, content to leave the conversation at that. Romilda isn't going anywhere, not for a while yet. Long enough for Hermione to get her head on straight, make sure she's not reacting only out of hurt. She looks down at her plate, drums her fingers on the table, and lets herself feel the weight of Romilda's thoughtful gaze.

On the horizon, a flashing sign creeps closer, growing larger, brighter.

~*~*~*~

The fastest twenty hours of Hermione's life precede her standing outside the Parkinson's front door, wet and miserable from a persistent rain, and staring at a cast iron door knocker: a fierce goblin with a ring caught in its snarling mouth. Appropriate doesn't begin to cover it.

She has not contacted the family since she left, and has no idea what she'll encounter when she enters the home. The ideal scenario involves finding Pansy with her memory fully recovered, giving her a quick once over, and declaring a medical all-clear before escaping. Of course, that scenario also involves looking into Pansy's eyes when they both know she tried to erase Hermione from her memories, which will hardly be pleasant. She wonders what the etiquette is for such a situation. Do they ignore it? Does Pansy apologize? Or maybe she should offer to alter Pansy's memory for a small fee, results professionally guaranteed.

The thought elicits a dark chuckle.

She waits for the worst of her nerves to calm before knocking, when it no longer feels like her heart is trying to break through her sternum. Belatedly, she thinks of her appearance, remembering how bedraggled she was last time, and casts a spell to dry the most sopping of her clothes, then checks her hair with a hand that only shakes a little. The door opens almost the moment she tucks her last curl away, revealing an elderly house-elf, female, with a narrow face, a severe mouth, and a pair of electric yellow eyes. She's wearing a hunter green pillowcase with silver stitching, and the material looks like silk. She nods at Hermione, an obviously grudging gesture, and steps to the side to allow her entry.

“Mistress is in the front study,” she says, voice surprisingly low for a house-elf. She doesn't look Hermione in the eyes, and Hermione doesn't know if that's training or simple contempt for her Muggle heritage. “Follow me. But wipe your feet first,” she snaps before Hermione can cross the threshold.

Hermione does as she's told, being very thorough, then enters a corridor paved by limestone tiles and walls that match the color of the house-elf's pillowcase. Massive brass candelabras hang from the ceiling, casting a disconcertingly warm and buttery light over the paintings and magical relics that line the hall a precise intervals. The Parkinsons are considered excessively proud of their heritage even by pure-blood standards, their private collection of artifacts one of the most extensive in Great Britain, and Hermione has to resist the urge to ogle the calculated display of family wealth.

Once, Hermione asked Pansy if she could see the collection, rumored to include Rowena Ravenclaw's wand, but the other woman's eventual denial was padded by so much evasion that Hermione never made the request again. Later, she'd asked Pansy if she was afraid the manor would fall down around their ears if a Muggle-born was allowed admittance. Pansy had laughed, but Hermione never considered it much of a joke. One of the many hints she should have taken more to heart, she supposes, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

The memory is still sour when Hermione enters the front study, peering once again into a room that has more in common with a dark cave than a living space. Pansy is there as promised, standing beside a fireplace with a snapping flame and paging through a book. It's such a familiar pose that Hermione feels a surge of longing that's less unexpected than it should be, and she suppresses it viciously.

Pansy only looks up after the house-elf announces her, and Hermione does a quick search of her face, alert for any sign of recognition. But the expression that greets her is neutral, that of a woman seeing her Healer and nothing more.

Hermione doesn't have time to process her reaction to that because when she looks away to take stock of herself, her eyes immediately find Malfoy. He is staring at her, draped across the couch, shoe-clad feet braced on the cushions. He doesn't stand to greet her, just sniffs and wiggles into a more comfortable position, reminding her that, Healer or no, she is no one. Not to him, certainly not to Pansy. His entitlement – this is already his home – maintains its bruising assault on her emotions.

“Hello.” She glances around the room in search of Pansy's parents – more to ignore Malfoy than because she wants to see them – surprised to find they aren't there. She'd expected them to be nearly attached to their daughter, watching Hermione's every move, ready to imagine any and every slight. But either they trust her more than she gave them credit for, or they've decided Malfoy is sentinel enough for their daughter's protection.

“They're at a soiree,” Pansy says, reading her mind. “Draco was invited, but sacrificed a night out to stay home and watch over me.” Pansy closes the book she's been reading, then takes a lazy stroll toward the center of the room. She is no athlete, but she possesses an undeniable grace, a confidence in her body and its every movement that draws the eye. Not long ago, Hermione would have spent happy hours just watching her, whether she was walking around a room, charming an acquaintance, or simply throwing her head back to laugh. She'd probably still do so if given the chance, and she hates herself for it. “Isn't he a dear?”

Hermione thinks Malfoy will bristle at Pansy's sarcasm, but he barely blinks, obviously used to it. A part of her gloats: she never spoke to me that way, never dismissed me so cavalierly. As if it means something. But the sense of superiority, reflexive and without basis in reality, is deservedly short-lived.

“How are you feeling?” she says, blunt, to the point, disgusted with herself. Her only purpose here is to be Pansy's Healer, not be tormented by thoughts of what if , or compare her relationship with Pansy to Malfoy's. She is a professional, and she needs to embrace that role to exclusion of all else. “You've taken two doses of the medication now, have any memories returned?”

“Not a one.” Pansy settles onto the couch beside Malfoy, pushes his feet off the cushion with a brusqueness devoid of affection, and leans back. “My parents are very concerned.” She lifts her hands, palms up, and looks around the room, as if to add, “as you can see.”

“It's not unexpected.” It's not ideal either, Hermione thinks, but doesn't say. She retrieves a chair and places it in front of Pansy before sitting down. “I know it's disappointing for you, but at this stage it isn't cause for alarm.”

“When should we be alarmed?” Malfoy's head rolls lazily on its pillow until he's looking at Hermione fully. His bored, nearly careless tone belies the open hostility on his face, the near hatred that burns toward her. “At what time will the great Healer Granger give us permission to be worried? Please, tell me when I have the right to care that my fiancee can't remember who she is.”

Hermione looks away, fighting for composure against the urge to return his venom. She'd forgotten, of course she had, that beneath the “understanding,” the childish squabbles and the mutual resignation, Malfoy and Pansy have a real relationship. One that's foundation goes back more than two decades. Pansy once likened them to a pair who'd been ship-wrecked on an island and forced to rely on one another to survive. They weren't friends, precisely, but their presence in each other's lives had become intrinsic.

She'd hated the analogy then, and seeing it reflected in Malfoy's eyes makes it even less palatable.

“I only meant that you shouldn't lose hope. We're still early in the process.” Hermione is pleased with her steady, calm response, wants it to rankle Malfoy that she doesn't react to him berating her in front of Pansy.

“Forgive me if I'm not relieved.”

Pansy chuckles, breaking the tense atmosphere.

“He's only this unpleasant with you, you know. I've asked him why, but he refuses to tell me anything. I don't suppose you'd be willing to reveal the big secret?” Pansy looks expectant, but Hermione only stares back. She will never have this conversation with Pansy, not if she can help it. “No?” Pansy sighs before her head tilts and she considers Hermione for a long moment. “I'm a little surprised, since you strike me as the kind of woman who likes to speak her mind. But continue being mysterious if you both enjoy it so much, I'm sure I'll catch you out eventually.”

Hermione wishes it wasn't completely unprofessional to hope not.

“Have you had any headaches?” she redirects. “Nausea? Any dreams that feel like memories?”

“Back to business so quickly? I'm disappointed. I'd thought we could chat.” Pansy gestures to a wheeled tray situated in the corner, upon which multiple decanters of shimmering liquid sit. “Care for a drink? I can call for water or lemonade, if you'd prefer something virgin.”

“No, thank you.”

Pansy's teasing smirk dims just a little. “I'm isolated here,” she says by way of explanation, before sparing a glance at Malfoy. “Well, apart from Draco and my parents. I was hoping it might be beneficial to talk to someone else from my past. Maybe you could spark something.”

“I doubt it.” Hermione clears her throat and tries not to be visibly uncomfortable, guilt settling over her at the cautiously retrained hopefulness in Pansy's tone. “Malfoy and your parents have spent more time with you than anyone, and this is the house you grew up in, making it the best, most familiar setting you could be in.” She clears her throat again. “However, you're right, getting out of the house, visiting places you've been and interacting with others is a good idea. Evidence for the helpfulness of that sort of thing is purely anecdotal, of course, but I believe in its benefits.”

“Except when it comes to talking with you, apparently.”

Bollocks. “We were barely acquaintances.”

“And here I thought we knew each other 'well enough?'”

Pansy's smile is knowing, her unblinking stare as direct and effective as a Basilisk's gaze. It's a uniquely Pansy expression, and it's disturbing how...Pansy-like she is. Normally, after someone loses their memory, they become a softer, hazier version of themselves. Like an ink drawing that's been re-worked in water color. So much of what they encounter is a new discovery, so much is uncertain, their personality becomes innocent and child-like almost by default. Even malleable in some ways. But Pansy's essence is distinctly present, her sharpest edges still keen.

“Meaning that we shared some classes at school but never really talked. That's well enough in my eyes.”

Pansy dips her chin. “My mistake. But to answer your questions: no. No headaches, no nausea, and no dreams.”

Hermione makes her notes, does a quick physical examination of Pansy, and nearly rockets to her feet.

“You have another day of the draught left, so take it in the same schedule you did today. I'll pop in again tomorrow to see if there's any progress and brew the second batch if it's necessary. Is the same time tomorrow evening acceptable?”

Malfoy, who'd become a silent lump, rouses. “Perhaps you'll be able to conjure some results tomorrow. Her parents are very anxious to see some. Any, really.”

“Do you have a problem with the level of care I've provided, Miss Parkinson?” Hermione gathers her materials, stores them with deliberate care. An internal debate rages fast and hot, and she says before she can stop herself, “Would you like to make a formal request for a new Healer?”

She doesn't know how she wants Pansy to answer that.

“Oh, I don't think that's necessary, do you? I've quite enjoyed your level of care, Healer Granger.” The smile is back, accompanied by a playful wink, though Hermione doesn't know if it's meant to tease her or Malfoy. “Same time tomorrow works for me.”

Hermione resists looking at Malfoy, ignores the emotions Pansy's words stir. “Then tomorrow it is,” she says.

~*~*~*~

Dane is waiting in Hermione's office when she arrives the next morning, just after ten o'clock. She's sitting at Hermione's desk, leaning back, legs crossed at the ankles and feet resting on a stack of Hermione's research papers. She doesn't look particularly upset, and she doesn't say anything, just looks pointedly at her watch.

Hermione resists apologizing to her superior for having a bit of a lie-in this morning. With the kind of hours she works, she deserves one every once in a while. It's the kind of entitled attitude Dane hates in her underlings, but if she wants an explanation she'll have to use her words and ask for one.

Hermione goes about removing her jacket and storing it without even a nod of acknowledgment, then finds a seat on one of her extra chairs while she searches her satchel for the notes from last night. She's re-reading them when Dane seems to realize she is in one of her less obliging moods. The other woman's feet drop to the floor, smacking hard.

“I heard from the Parkinsons this morning,” she says, and Hermione makes a sound in the back of her throat, continues to study her notes. “They're less than pleased with their daughter's progress. Or lack thereof, I should say.”

It takes Hermione a moment to realize the crunching sound she hears is from the notes crumpling in her fist. She takes a deep breath, then tries to flatten the page.

“It's only been a day. She's just starting her second round of treatment.”

“I told them that. They also expressed concern about your...history with their daughter. A history you apparently didn't deem important enough to inform me of when I assigned you to this case.”

Dane sniffs, wipes at her nose while Hermione tries not to choke on her rage.

“Is my professionalism being called in to question?”

That Dane doesn't answer right away makes Hermione more livid than the Parkinson's insinuation. “No,” she says eventually. “Not at all. But I do want to remind you how critical this case is.”

“My past with Miss Parkinson is exactly that. It has no bearing on the course of treatment and I informed the Parkinsons of that when they asked me directly.” Hermione stops to take a needed breath, nearly gulping air in her agitation. Her entire body feels hot. “I am doing the best I can,” she adds, quieter, hating that she even has to say it.

“I know you are.” Dane pushes slowly to her feet, emits a pained groan when a knee cracks. She limps toward Hermione and puts a hand on her shoulder, the gesture of comfort disconcerting coming from the gruff woman. “You are the best I have, but that doesn't mean you're the best for every situation. If, for whatever reason, you'd like to be taken off the case, tell me now.”

Hermione snorts. She should wash her hands of this, should tell Dane to turn Pansy's care over to someone else and be done with it. She doesn't need this kind of stress, and it isn't worth her peace of mind.

But she won't. Because she doesn't trust anyone else. Because, for just this moment, Pansy wants her and Hermione won't walk away from her this time. Not unless she has to.

“I'm fine.”

Dane nods, smiles like she knew that is what Hermione would say, then gives her shoulder a hard squeeze before walking out the office.

~*~*~*~

It's family day at the Burrow. The late lunch is over and everyone's migrated from the dining room to a digesting location of their choice. Hermione is in the back yard with the boys and Ginny. Lavender is in the kitchen chatting with Mrs. Weasley, Mr. Weasley is in his shed doing he only knows what, and the children are scattered around the grounds, more than likely running from their twin uncles.

They've been sitting for an hour, and most in the backyard are enjoying their second drink, though Hermione's is safely alcohol free. She still doesn't trust herself in an altered state, even less now that she's being exposed to Pansy regularly. Inebriated lamentations of lost love are not something she does well, and she doesn't want to give herself the chance to perform one.

That and the evening's appoint with Pansy is still looming, and she'd prefer to be sober.

“I've never seen her so depressed.” Ron speaks in a stage whisper, one hand covering his mouth like that will keep Hermione from hearing him. He spares a glance in her direction, then shakes his head sadly, lips pressed together in a sympathetic line.

“Ron.” Harry gives him a repressive look.

“But it's true. Look at that face.” Ron stares at her, upper lip rising like a curtain, his nose bunching like he's smelled something foul. Like he doesn't know, or doesn't care, that Hermione is staring directly back at him, and can see every contortion of his face. “It's pathetic. I mean, I'm getting depressed by proximity.”

Hermione lifts her glass of water in a mock toast. “Thank you, Ron. You flatterer.”

He goes on like she hasn't spoken. “She's obviously lonely. I mean, wouldn't you be? Single for, what? A couple years now, ain't it? She needs a woman.”

Hermione groans and rolls her eyes at Ginny, who looks like she is going to laugh. The traitor.

“I do not.”

“Of course you do.”

“No, I don't”

“Don't tell me you need a man, I won't believe it.”

“Of course not.”

Ron nods, almost apologetic. “That's right. Ruined her, I did. Once you've had the best, there's no point in carrying on. Hermione knows that better than anyone.” He points a finger in her direction, quietly triumphant. “Brightest witch of our age, right there.”

It doesn't matter how long they've been friends, Hermione thinks, Ron will never cease to amaze her. “All we did is kiss,” she says, very aware of the disturbed look on Ginny's face.

“That's all it took.”

“Someone get him a water,” Ginny says, looking back toward the kitchen but making no move to actually get up and get it herself.

“He can have mine.” Hermione holds her glass out to Ron but he waves it away.

“Hang on, I'm trying to make a point here.”

Ginny sighs. “Settle in boys and girls, there's no stopping him now.”

“No, I mean it. I think Hermione needs to put herself out there again. She needs a date and,” Ron taps his chest, “I know the perfect girl.”

A chorus of groans follow the announcement. The first – and last – time Ron set Hermione up had been one of the more humiliating moments of Hermione's life. Sally, as it turned out, was straight, but Ron had had a 'feeling.' After sharing a confusing and increasingly awkward drink – in which Sally believed she was being interviewed for a landscaping job at Hermione's home, and Hermione thought she was on a date – Hermione apologized for her friend and fled. She didn't speak to Ron for a month.

“Honestly, she's a nice girl, reads all kinds of books. Her father's a Muggle, and, yeah, she's only twenty years old, but she's very mature for her age. And she was Gryffindor.”

“Please tell me you haven't already approached her about this.”

“Of course not, but I managed to show her your picture and she was very complimentary.”

Hermione chuckles. Leave it to Ron, she thinks. Somehow, without knowing anything, he's managed to strike in the same vicinity as the heart of the matter. She needs to take action, stop waiting and hoping things will turn out for the best on their own. That tactic's blown up in her face already: when she passively waited for Pansy to seek her out instead of demanding answers and honesty. She has to move forward. But not, she vows, into the arms of a twenty year old. Or, she amends, with anyone Ron thinks will be good for her.

“No.”

“Oh, come on -”

“No, Ron. Work is very stressful right now and I can't imagine putting in the effort to cultivate a relationship right now.”

“Cul- cultivate a relationship?” Ron echoes, blinking. He looks at his drink, blinks a few more times, then turns back to her. “Blimey, Hermione, you make it sound like a job. Relationships are supposed to be fun. For the most part.” Ron wrenches around to look toward the house, most likely making sure his wife is still inside. “And they're supposed to make you happy, also for the most part. With an attitude like that, I'm not surprised you've been single for -” He starts counting on his fingers.

“Ron.” He stops counting, mumbling the numbers under his breath, and looks at her hopefully. “I really appreciate the thought, but I just can't right now. Maybe when things calm down at work you can set that date up, okay? But not until then.”

“But Rosabella might not be single by then.” He turns to Harry and gestures toward Hermione. “Tell her.”

Harry demurs with a vigorous shake of his head.

“Ron, if Rosabella is taken, then you'll find me someone else.” Hermione smiles, trying to soothe Ron's tipsy distress. After a moment he nods and gradually the talk around them moves on, for which Hermione is grateful. Well tread topics surface, like family vacations, and birthday parties, and what the children need for Hogwarts this year. Things that comprise a family life.

Hermione's contribution is negligible, but she's not bothered. Her mind is distracted and drifting elsewhere, trying to peer ahead into the next stage of her life. What comes after a woman without a memory.

~*~*~*~

She is alone. A woman and her cauldron.

The still nameless house-elf had escorted her to the front study when she arrived at the Parkinson's, then left her in a room that was empty and dark even by Parkinson standards. Though before she slammed the door, she deigned to tell Hermione the Parkinsons were visiting friends and the young mistress would be back shortly.

That was nearly forty minutes ago. Ten minutes ago Hermione lit some candles and began brewing another batch of the Retention Draught because she couldn't sit still and her arches were starting to ache from the pacing. If Pansy doesn't need it, Hermione will just throw it out. And maybe charge the Parkinsons for it anyway, just for wasting her time. But only if Dane lets her get away with it.

She's humming to herself, a song from childhood she can't remember the words to, when the door to the study opens and then softly closes. Hermione, who has her back to it, doesn't see who enters and doesn't bother to stop what she's doing to look. She's not in the mood to be solicitous. The question of who is answered quickly enough anyway, when there's a soft chuckle, then an amused, “Alone at last.”

Pansy's voice is laden with quiet intimacy, and for a moment Hermione is certain she remembers everything and has come to torment her. But she says nothing more, and Hermione forces herself to take a deep, calming breath, waiting for her nerves to bring themselves back under control. In front of her, the heating liquid bubbles and pops, sending puffs of green smoke into the air at staggered, unpredictable intervals. Her eyes follow the sparkling haze they release into the air, she watches it form and dissipate and form again, over and over, all while stirring the brew in lazy, counter-clockwise circles. She doesn't turn around.

“How are you feeling today?” she says after a while, when her heart has unstuck itself from her throat.

Pansy laughs. “There's no getting a rise out of you, is there?” she says, her voice moving closer. “I'm the same. Absolutely no change. Is that still normal?”

“It's not typical.” Hermione hesitates, torn between cautious optimism and undiluted truth. “But I'm not overly concerned, yet.”

“Yet.” Pansy parrots. “So you're a little concerned.”

“Yes.” Hermione sighs. “I would have liked to see some progress by now, but it doesn't always happen that way.”

Pansy makes a sound of understanding, but doesn't say more. She lingers out of Hermione's line of sight, and Hermione tries not to wonder what she's doing. Tries not to enjoy being alone with her, the sole focus of her attention. She looks at her watch. The potion will be ready in another three minutes and the time can't pass quickly enough.

“You know, it's odd,” Pansy says, apropos of nothing.

“What's odd?”

“Being with you.” When Hermione doesn't respond, Pansy continues in a musing way, as if these thoughts have only just occurred to her. “Most of my memory is a total void, except you. When I look at you it's like -” Pansy's slow words grind to a halt, and Hermione chances a glance. Pansy's gaze has a distant quality, one finger is tapping against her pursed lips. “It's like when you're trying to remember a word and it's on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't get it.”

“Considering your condition, I'd expect you spend most of the day with that feeling.”

It's an unkind thing to say; inappropriate, too, since Pansy is her patient and entitled to – if not deserving of – her compassion as well as her care. She hates speaking so thoughtlessly, and hates that she feels so off kilter around Pansy, torn between punishing her, or ignoring her, or just wanting to pull her close and tell her everything will be alright.

“You don't like me,” Pansy says, as if delighted by the discovery. “I knew all that anger couldn't be meant for just Draco.”

“We didn't get along at school,” Hermione says, knowing silence would only encourage Pansy to dig further.

“Is that all? How boring.” Pansy walks until she is standing next to Hermione. In a deceptively casual move, she leans against the desk and crosses her arms, lets her elbow graze against Hermione's arm. Her gaze is searching, and Hermione can feel it flickering across her face, her hands, everywhere it can reach, but she doesn't meet it. “The tension that radiates off you is so...delicious,” she muses after a moment, “I thought for sure it was something more exciting than a difference of opinion between school girls.”

“The stakes associated with those different opinions were rather higher than you're imagining, I'm sure.”

“I assume you're referring to the so-called Dark Lord? That sounds vaguely more intriguing than a fight over some smooth-faced boy,” Pansy's voice dips, “but not nearly as intriguing as I was hoping.”

Hermione feels herself flush at the suggestiveness in Pansy's tone, and she ducks her head, hoping to hide the blush she knows is darkening her cheeks. But Pansy is too observant.

“Oh, yes,” Pansy says on a throaty laugh that Hermione used to hear – used to crave – regularly. “It's definitely more than that.”

The silence that follows is broken only by the bubbling potion. Expectation feels thick in the air, but Hermione refuses to – she can't – give Pansy the satisfaction of responding. She stirs with more determination, fighting the agitation stiffening her limbs and giving her away.

“Aren't you going to tell me?”

“It's best forgotten.”

“Were we lovers?”

Heat spreads through Hermione's body and her head snaps up before she can control it. She catches the flash of triumph on Pansy's face before she can look away.

“I'm definitely close to the mark.” She reaches out and brackets Hermione's chin in her fingers, gently turns Hermione to face her. Hermione thinks about resisting, but only hardens her expression, fights not to reveal a thing. “Were you in love with me?”

The teasing tone is gone, replaced by a soft curiosity. Somehow it makes the question more painful. Hermione grabs Pansy's wrist and pulls it away.

“You're lovely, you know,” Pansy says, as she lets her hand be guided from Hermione's face. She looks almost wistful. “There's a fierceness to you. It's very attractive.”

It's too much. After everything Pansy's put her through, Hermione can't stand here and take this. “You're an engaged woman,” she says, dropping Pansy's hand and extinguishing the flame beneath the cauldron. She reaches for her vials and knows it's too much to ask that Pansy not mark the shaking of her hands. “I can't imagine Malfoy would appreciate your observations.”

Pansy frowns at Hermione's tone. “Ah, yes, dear Draco.” She rolls her eyes. “How easy it is to forget about him when I'm with you. He's another one who inspires a frustratingly vague emotion whenever I'm with him.”

“Love, perhaps?”

Pansy hums softly. “Whenever he opens his mouth I can't decide if I should roll my eyes or just slap him. That doesn't sound like love, does it? Though perhaps those urges come part and parcel with pending matrimony. I should ask my parents. Now the urges you inspire are much more fun. Shall I tell you about them?”

“I wish you wouldn't.”

“They would shock you, I think.”

“I don't doubt it. I'm also sure I wouldn't enjoy a bit of it.”

Pansy takes the stoppered potion from Hermione, deliberately brushing their fingers. “It's a good thing honesty isn't one of Gryffindor's sacred traits, otherwise you'd have to return your badge.”

Hermione cleans her cauldron with a wave of her wand, looks about for her travel bag. “Remembered those, have you?”

“I've been debriefed. My parents are very good Slytherins, apparently.”

The wry amusement breaks Hermione's control just enough. “You're exactly the same aren't you?” Hermione presses a hand against her eyes, grimaces. “Even without a memory, with an entirely clean slate, you're cutting and superior and full of misplaced confidence.”

Pansy's face blanks with surprise for just a moment at Hermione's loss of composure, but she recovers quickly, says in that sly voice of hers, “Misplaced? Oh, I doubt it.”

Hermione laughs through a rush of unwanted, humiliating tears. “It's just who you are, isn't it?” she says, and the sudden longing to touch Pansy, to have this abrasive woman be a part of her life, feels as fresh as it did the first time she recognized the emotion for what it was.

“You tell me.” Pansy takes a step forward and it looks like she is going to reach out and touch Hermione, but the door opens and she aborts the gesture, turning to look as Malfoy glides in, impeccably dressed in evening attire, his hair fashionably tousled. His steps falter when he sees Hermione, but he covers his surprise with a small, insincere smile. Hermione doesn't miss the way Pansy's mouth twists with disdain.

“Granger. I didn't realize you were here.“ He turns his back to her. “Would either of you care for a drink?”

“A gin and tonic for me, dear,” Pansy says, sharp with impatience.

“I was just leaving.” Hermione ignores Pansy's disapproving frown. She gathers her things and nearly trips toward the door she is moving so quickly.

“How sad.” Malfoy turns to smile at her. When he takes in her agitation, it becomes gloating. “This is the second batch,” he nods toward the vial in Pansy's hand. “We're running out of time.”

Hermione grits her teeth, one hand on the door knob and desperate to get away, she can't help but defend herself. “It's not out yet.”

“We need Pansy whole, Granger.”

“That's Healer Granger,” she bites out, “and I'm working on it.”

Malfoy's eyes narrow, and the step he takes in Hermione's direction is menacing. “I'd suggest working harder.”

“Do you ever get tired of listening to yourself speak?” Pansy muses, speaking before Hermione can fly across the room and bloody Malfoy's nose with her fist. They share a glance, but Hermione looks away immediately, refusing to get drawn anymore deeply into the argument. She's pushing open the door when Pansy says, “Merlin knows I do.”

Malfoy's cheeks actually redden at the rebuke, but Hermione doesn't stay to enjoy it.

~*~*~*~

“What would you like?”

“Whatever you're having will be fine,” Hermione says, too shocked at being in Romilda's flat to think properly. Knowing what she has come her to do too distracting to allow her to concentrate on anything more complicated than breathing.

She'd run into the other woman leaving the hospital. Fresh off the scene at Pansy's, the confusing emotions still buffeting her, it had seemed destined. Here was the chance to truly start distancing herself from Pansy, replacing the echoes of her touch with another woman's. It might not be healthy, but it was a start, and when Romilda invited her back to hers, the expectation unmistakable, Hermione didn't let herself think twice.

Now here she was. Heart pounding in her chest, wondering just how she was going to make it through this.

“Here you are.” Romilda hands her a drink, something dark with ice, and her smile is ridiculously pleased. Hermione sips at the liquid distractedly, not tasting a thing. Her hand starts to shake, and she's afraid she'll drop the glass, so she sets it on a coaster on the coffee table.

Romilda must take that as some sort of signal, because before Hermione can straighten in her seat, she's kissing her. It's a kiss without introduction, just Romilda's hand on her face and her tongue invading Hermione's still uncertain mouth. She either doesn't mark or doesn't care about Hermione's inaction, pressing forward with a single-minded purpose that would impress Hermione under difference circumstances. Or in a different lover.

Deciding the die has been cast, Hermione slowly lifts a hand, bringing it to the back of Romilda's head. She lets her fingers slip through the other woman's hair, catching on thick strands before tightening her grip. Romilda seems to like that, and she surges into Hermione with a groan.

It's nice, but Hermione feels no match to the desperate passion on the other woman's face, has no true answer to Romilda's increasingly frenzied touches. Her arousal is detached, a natural product of physical stimulation that has less to do with the woman on her lap than is probably right.

There should be guilt. Shame. She's never used anyone like this and she doesn't think it should be this easy. But the blinders are off for both of them, and there's comfort in that. Hermione doesn't know what she represents to Romilda, and she doesn't care to know. It's enough that Romilda takes pleasure in her body. And she doubts Romilda is conflicted by similar thoughts, doubts she would care if she knew Hermione only wants her because of who she isn't.

~*~*~*~

She wakes up to Romilda lying beside her, head propped up, a satisfied smile curling her mouth. “You passed out on me,” she says, free hand reaching out to tangle gently in Hermione's curls. “And I was just getting to the good part.”

Hermione blinks sleepily and remembers the orgasm that ricocheted through her body not an hour before. She chuckles ruefully. “I don't think you're giving yourself enough credit.”

“I was just getting started.” Romilda leans in, lips and tongue brushing lazily along Hermione cheek, her jaw. She chuckles softly at Hermione's sharp intake of breath. “This is what happens when you spend too much time at work. You're exhausted, Hermione. Worn out.” Romilda traces her fingers beneath Hermione's bottom lip. “But not too worn out, I hope.”

Hermione rolls until Romilda is pinned beneath her, her dark eyes wide, nostrils flared with excitement.

“We'll just see who wears out first.”

~*~*~*~

It's almost noon by the time Hermione leaves Romilda's flat, last night's blazer rolled and tucked beneath her arm, her cheeks pink from lingering echoes of pleasure and burgeoning embarrassment. She can't regret the orgasms – they were fantastic – but anyone who looks out the window and sees the wild state of her hair will know what she has been up to; anyone who passes her on the street will recognize the guilty look in her eyes. And anyone at the hospital who cares to follow such things – and there are more than enough – will know Romilda succeeded in bedding her when the woman inevitably turns her attention to her next conquest.

So much for keeping her personal life private.

Hermione steps into an alley, presses her back against the brick facade and closes her eyes. She takes a long, slow breath.

It wasn't worth it, she thinks. She'd suspected that before, but she hadn't known it. Now she does. She won't regret something she walked into with her eyes wide open, but she wants more, isn't built for these kinds of encounters: Thanks. It was fun. Bygones.

Another difference between her and Pansy, she thinks, then wonders if the thought is unfair. An eight month affair is hardly comparable to a one night stand, no matter how badly it ends. In their case, with barely a whimper.

Hermione's eyes pop open and she stares, not really seeing anything. After a bit she chuckles, realizing she's a wiser woman today than she was yesterday. Knows herself a little bit better, and all it took was a one-night stand. Despite everything, it feels good.


End file.
